


a palace from ruin

by zhen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Character Study, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, POV Second Person, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-12 08:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15991346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhen/pseuds/zhen
Summary: When you wake one morning, well-rested and warm with the last vestiges of a dream lingering in your thoughts, you feel at peace. You don’t remember much of what you dreamt of -- the glint of weapons in the sunlight and blood and a lover’s kiss, perhaps.Dawn is breaking over the horizon when you leave your tent. Your love places a hand on your shoulder as he walks past you, and you smile.





	a palace from ruin

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from 'a closeness' by dermot kennedy.
> 
> i wrote this about a year and a half ago over the span of a month, the same amount of time it took me to replay the game.
> 
> enjoy!

When you wake one morning, well-rested and warm with the last vestiges of a dream lingering in your thoughts, you feel at peace. You don’t remember much of what you dreamt of -- the glint of weapons in the sunlight and blood and a lover’s kiss, perhaps.

You have an arm draped over Tamlen; when he stirs awake, you gently run your fingertips down the length of his body. He turns towards you, languid, and presses a kiss to your neck, and then your collarbone, and lower, and lower, until the dream has left your mind entirely.

Dawn is breaking over the horizon when you leave your tent. Your love places a hand on your shoulder as he walks past you, and you smile.

~

Humans are foolish, stupid creatures, you think. When you find Tamlen at your usual meeting place he has his bow trained on three of them, panicked expressions on their faces.

Their insistence that they’re only in the region because they found treasure is one of the worst excuses you’ve heard. You kill one of them to scare the others off, and as you lower your bow Tamlen turns and grins at you. As your heart flips, you can’t help but smile back.

~ 

The mirror, when you find it in the heart of the ruin the shems clearly did not lie about, does nothing but spark a feeling of dread deep in the pit of your stomach.

You involuntarily take a step back at the same time Tamlen takes a step forward. And suddenly, so suddenly it makes you dizzy, a whispered verse of an unbelievably beautiful song fills your head, and Tamlen screams.

The last thing you see as you’re thrown backwards is his body curled in on itself as some kind of magic, dark and powerful, fills the chamber. Your head hits the stone. 

You black out.

~

Despite every instinct in your body telling you not to return, you agree when the Keeper asks you to accompany Merrill back to the ruins. You don’t feel like yourself after spending three days unconscious and flooded with healing magic, but you make it there for Tamlen. He is more important than your own discomfort.

You’re not prepared to find the Grey Warden the Keeper spoke of standing in front of that creators-forsaken mirror when you arrive.

He is human, yes, but Ashalle and the elders have told you of their order. They are an honorable sort, they said, and you were told this Warden saved your life, so you thank him. 

When you ask after your beloved, however, his face grows serious. 

_No._

“He is lost to us. Trust me.” He pauses, regret etched into the lines of his face. “I’m sorry.”

~

Hahren Pavel’s words honouring Tamlen do not make you cry. Your hands shake and your breath becomes shallow, but you shed no tears. For some reason this does nothing but make you feel worse.

When it is time to leave your clan, and with them everything you ever knew, you still do not weep. Your heart is broken and the looks you share with your closest friends, your _family,_ all tell you that if nothing else, you are not alone in your grief. It is comforting.

Your love is dead and your clan is in danger, and you must leave them all to save yourself, if the Warden is to be believed. It seems selfish, somehow, but you do not have a choice.

~

Ostagar is unlike any place you’ve ever seen, even if Duncan tells you it’s not what it once was.

In the hours before your joining you meet a mage in the wilds; despite Alistair’s hesitation and his firm belief that she will turn the lot of you into frogs, your first thought isn’t that she is dangerous.

When she takes you to her mother you nearly trip over your own feet when you realize who she is.

“Asha’bellanar,” you say, bowing your head.

She smiles. “Yes, child.”

“You _know_ this woman?”

You raise an eyebrow at Alistair. “Not personally. My people do.”

~

When the battle goes to hell and you’re still reeling over your joining and you wake up in a hut with white spots in your vision, you don’t know if you should be thankful or wish you had died with the others.

You thank Flemeth and continue north into the wilds, Alistair and Morrigan at your side.

~

Lothering is, for the most part, uninteresting. You meet a woman by the name of Leliana and you meet a qunari named Sten; they seem to want to accompany you, so you let them.

When you exit the local tavern one afternoon you see a man standing outside, polishing his blades. He doesn’t _look_ like a refugee, and when you ask him, he tells you that Lothering is his and his family’s home.

“You may need to leave if the darkspawn come,” you say, thinking of your clan and of Ostagar.

His face grows serious. “I know.”

For a human, you think, he seems better than most. “Luck may mean little in the coming months, but I wish you well.”

“Same to you, uh,” he pauses, “sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Eolaselan.”

He smiles. “I’m Hawke.”

~

You’re not exactly surprised when assassins ambush you, though you weren’t expecting them to be so _terrible._ One remains alive but unconscious after the battle; despite your better judgement, you don’t wish to kill him.

“My name is Zevran Arainai,” the flat-ear says once he wakes. “Zev to my friends--”

“My name is Eolaselan, but what does it matter? You tried to kill me. Who hired you?”

When he mentions Loghain you can’t keep the grimace off your face. He looks at you curiously but says nothing further on the subject, instead opting to discuss how he may be of use to you.

Despite the protests of your companions you agree to his offer; if he makes another attempt on your life, you know he is aware that you will not hesitate a second time.

He smiles at you then, a glint in his eyes, and for some reason you find yourself smiling back. You extend a hand to help the assassin, unaware of everything but the warmth of his palm.

~ 

You bring Alistair and Wynne with you to Ostagar. Despite what the others have heard of what happened, the two of them were there, and this is important to all three of you.

The fortress is a mess. You don’t know what you were expecting -- perhaps that the darkspawn would have moved on by now. Clearly, the lot of you were not so lucky.

You and your companions fight countless grunts and hurlocks before you find him.

The humans’ king, Cailan Theirin, is crucifixed; his body strung up like a trophy for the darkspawn. It makes you sick.

Alistair’s face crumples as he turns away.

It is a simple matter to collect the rest of Cailan’s arms and armor. The darkspawn in the area are many, but it’s nothing any of you haven’t dealt with before.

That is, of course, until an ogre comes barreling toward you.

It’s an ugly fight, and you have a poisoned blade in its leg when you look up at its gnarled body and realize, face turning pale, that Duncan’s sword and dagger is sticking out of its chest.

Suddenly your vision goes red, and as the beast collapses you jump on top of it, yanking his dagger out as you do so. With every ounce of strength in your body you drive it home through the ogre’s skull, twisting it deeper in the bloodied flesh.

Time is lost to you until there is a hand or -- _something_ pulling you away from the blighted body beneath you. “Enough,” a voice says, kind and quiet. Wynne. “You’ve done enough.”

You slowly let your weight fall back and drop to the stone. Resting an elbow on your knee and your head in your hand, you grimace and look past Wynne to Alistair, who’s pulling the sword out of the ogre’s chest. You see the moment he realizes just who the blade once belonged to.

“ _No,_ ” he chokes out.

“I know,” you say, angry, wiping sweat out of your eyes. The taste of blood is in your mouth. “Alistair, I…”

“Maker. _Damn it._ What else will this _fucking_ blight take away from us?”

Your gaze meets his, then, desperation and pain and grief written plainly on his features. You manage to get back on your feet. “At least we now know that he fought to the end.”

“Does it matter?” he mutters, eyes drifting to the sword in his hands.

“Yes.” You take a few steps towards the ogre, and using your foot as leverage, you remove the dagger from its skull. “It does.”

It takes effort but you and the others manage to move Cailan’s body to a pyre. Wynne begins a prayer, with Alistair joining in a few moments later. to your surprise, you find yourself murmuring your own words to the Creators.

(Perhaps your words are more for Duncan than for Cailan.)

The flames rise up. You watch them engulf the body of a king, and it feels like an ending.

~

On one quiet evening Alistair offers you a rose. You noticed that he picked it in Lothering, and when you tell him as much, he looks sheepish. His words are sweet and humbling and if things had turned out differently, perhaps you would seek him out during the cold nights.

But things _were_ different. “I feel the same way,” you say, looking up at him as you run your fingertips over the petals. “Ma serannas. I don’t know if I’d be able to do any of this without you. The rose is beautiful, Alistair. I just want to make it clear that I’m interested in someone else.”

“Ah.” He shrugs a little helplessly, smiling at you despite your words. “Well… in any case, thank you. It’s nice to know I’m not alone in this.”

“I’m with you,” you say. “Always.”

~

You proposition Zevran before he has the chance to, after your time in the Brecillian Forest, and you _know_ he would have eventually, you are not blind. You have seen the way he looks at you and how he speaks of you.

The sex is good--no, it’s better than good, it’s hot and rough and _Creators_ does he know how to fuck well. You’re all teeth and he growls under his breath and slams into you just right and as your eyes nearly roll back, you are able to forget.

~

You’re on your way to Haven when a group of mercenaries attack you. They’re some of the worst fighters you’ve encountered, yet when you’ve left nothing but bloody corpses on the ground, one slips out from behind a tree with his sword drawn.

You look at him incredulously. “You’re still thinking of attacking us?” you ask, snickering. You can’t help it. “Do you truly believe you would win alone in a fight against two Grey Wardens, an Orlesian bard, and a highly trained Antivan Crow? Look around you. Your friends are dead, and there were eight of them.”

The mercenary pales. He looks a little green, actually, and you figure it’s worth scaring him just to see this look on his face. You hear Zevran stifle a laugh behind you.

You kill the man, anyway, a blade lodged in his throat.

~

When the guardian of the Urn of Sacred Ashes mentions your past, how you have suffered and how others have suffered, the first thought that comes to you is _Tamlen._ When the spirit says his name, it takes everything in you to stifle the choked sound you make.

“Do you believe that you failed him?” 

Your hand goes to your dagger, _Duncan’s_ dagger, that is strapped to your hip. The action is not meant to be a threat -- rather, it is to calm you, to feel the leather of the hilt beneath your fingertips. To remember why you are here, why you are still fighting; to convince yourself that Andruil is still guiding your aim and your heart even while deep in an Andrastian temple. Andraste’s temple.

“Yes,” you reply.

When the spirit turns to Zevran and asks of someone he has lost, if he regrets what he had done--

His voice waivers. “Yes,” he says. “Now move on.”

You look at Zevran, and he looks at you, and a quiet understanding passes between you both. _I know,_ you think. _I know._

~

The spirit you encounter later looks and speaks like your former love, and while you have no illusions about the entity's true nature, it does not make it any easier.

It looks at you once before it disappears. “I wish you well, lethallin. We will not meet again.”

You clutch the amulet it left to your heart. Taking a deep breath you steel yourself, and you gingerly place the chain around your neck. You feel a hand lightly, briefly touch the small of your back, as if in comfort. You do not need to turn to know who it is. 

You take another breath, and continue forward.

It does not take long to reach the altar. You are weary and tired, so you do not question it when the Guardian asks you to remove your worldly possessions.

“Sylaise ma ghilani,” you whisper as you step into the flames.

The fire does not burn you.

The urn itself is beautiful; the ashes, when you touch them, are so fine even your well-trained fingertips cannot feel their texture. You take a pinch and place them into a leather pouch, and when it comes time to leave, you look back for only a moment before stepping through the threshold and into the cool mountain air.

~

_It roars, snarling in your face, blighted and hideous and terrifying; suddenly and irrevocably you understand why people call them archdemons instead of dragons or darkspawn or--_

You wake from the dream, shaken and nauseous. Alistair looks at you from across the fire with a knowing gaze and asks if you experienced the same dream he did.

He’s describing his own, how he could hear the sounds of the darkspawn and how the Archdemon seemed to _look_ at him when his voice trails off--

And suddenly the camp is under attack: quiet conversation turns to shouted orders, and you forget about the dream.

It’s not a difficult fight. Yet, near the end, you find yourself sucking in a shocked breath when you see a hauntingly familiar silhouette in front of you.

 _No,_ you think, panicking, weapon lowering immediately. This can’t be real, it--

“ _Lethallin,_ ” it shrieks, shrill and pained.

Tamlen.

_How?_

Your bow falls to the ground, forgotten. You chase after him as he runs, hand on the hilt of your dagger more out of instinct than conscious thought.

He turns, and you feel like vomiting.

“I’m sorry,” he wails, wretched, “I’m so sorry. Darling, I always loved you.”

The sound of his voice breaks your heart more than it does to look at him.

“I--”

“Please,” he begs. “I can’t stand it. _Please.”_

You feel as if you’re outside of yourself when you reach forward, pulling his shoulders towards you as your dagger pierces his heart. Gently you lower him to the ground, watching as the last faint traces of life leave his eyes.

Alistair tries to console you. He says that it’s better like this, that you killing your former love, the ghoul, was a mercy. You don’t want to hear it. 

When your companions leave to give you space, you lean forward to gently shut his eyes with one hand and, with the other, grip his tainted, dead fingers in yours. 

The tears come. It’s the first time you cry over his death; you don’t try to stop them. You do not know how long you sit there for.

“Dareth shiral, lethallin,” you whisper. “May Falon’din guide you into the beyond.”

~

A thought comes to you one evening while you’re sitting near the fire at camp; Leliana is weaving an elaborate minstrel’s tale while Zevran quietly polishes his weapons by your side. In the distance you see Sten looking up at the stars, and you see Morrigan reading what you assume to be Flemeth’s grimoire. Alistair sits across from you, fingering an amulet and staring into the flames. Wynne is in her tent and Oghren is asleep nearby. Shale paces near Bodahn’s caravan. 

You are at home, here. You are surrounded by those who have fought by your side for the better part of a year, by people whom you have come to think of as family. A clan of your own, as it were.

Zevran places his daggers aside and reaches for your hand. You intertwine your fingers with his without thinking, a small smile gracing your lips.

You love him. You love the rest of them, too. 

~

Later that night, as with most nights, Zevran joins you in your tent. You take your time with each other, the sex slow and languorous as the fire wanes.

“Ar ady latha na bellanaris,” you whisper, crooning, a you watch him come apart beneath you. It does not take long for you to follow him over the edge.

Afterwards, when you have undone the silk binding his wrists -- _his_ idea, one you were happy to oblige -- Zevran looks up at you curiously. You quirk an eyebrow and press your lips to his, kissing him long and deep until he sighs and leans back into the bedroll. 

It’s not until you’re nearly asleep that he brings up the source of his curiosity. “Such beautiful words you speak, my dear Warden," he murmurs. "If only I understood their meaning.”

You laugh quietly, turning around in his arms so you face him. It took you long enough, really. The more time that passes, the more you think that the closure you had with Tamlen is what allowed you to open your heart to the man in your arms.

Maybe it _was_ a mercy.

“Perhaps in time, vhenan.”

He searches your expression for a moment; for what, though, you’re uncertain. And then he smiles: a small one, close-lipped and sensuous, yet as beautiful and radiant as the sun itself. “Indeed.”

~

Denerim is… not what you expected, not the first time you were here and not the second, now that everyone has arrived for the Landsmeet.

You and Zevran have just walked outside of Arl Eamon’s estate to run some errands when he coughs and places a hand on your shoulder.

Turning, you look at him curiously, eyebrows raising as he presents you with what looks to be an earring. It’s small and gold and encrusted with rubies, and for the life of you you can’t figure out why he is flashing it around in the market district of all places.

“Zevran?”

He tells you the story of how it belonged to a prince he bedded and killed; it’s not the first such tale and it doesn’t surprise you. What _does_ surprise you is how he places it in your palm and tells you it is a gift.

“Thank you,” you reply after a moment of shocked silence. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is, but don’t get the wrong idea about it. You killed Taliesen; as far as the Crows are concerned, I died with him. That means I’m free, at least for now. You may sell it, or wear it, or… whatever you’d like. It’s really the least I could give you in return.”

“So it’s not a token of affection, then?”

He falters. “I… please, just take it. It’s meant a lot to me but so has what you’ve done. Please, Eolas. Take it.”

You do nothing but look at him. To his credit, he does seem uncomfortable, though he is hiding it well.

Sighing, you give the earring back in one swift motion. “I am Dalish, Zevran. We don’t give and receive gifts to satisfy a whim or to tell the recipient that they’re free to sell it. I don’t want the earring if you are going to tell me that it is a token of nothing but your thanks. You didn’t need to thank me then, vhenan, and you don’t need to thank me now.”

He grimaces, closing his fist around the earring, white-knuckled. “You are a very frustrating man to deal with, do you know that?”

“Yes,” you say, and continue forward.

~

The Landsmeet does not go well; despite the support of many nobles, Loghain still orders your execution. In hindsight, Anora betraying her word and speaking against you shouldn’t have surprised you, but it did. Alistair, at least, didn’t seem shocked.

Of course, you have never been one to go down without a fight. The chamber smells of death and iron by the end of it and you nearly kill the damn traitor yourself when a chantry mother interrupts the bloodshed.

Not entirely pleased with the turn of events, you choose Alistair for the duel.

When he wins and looks over at you, you do nothing but nod and watch as he moves forward. Without flinching he brings his sword -- Duncan’s sword -- down on Loghain. 

It is justice.

~

A few days after you and the armies have left Redcliffe, Zevran offers you the earring once more. This time you are more than happy to take it, and he seems both relieved and a little nervous as he explains why he’s not been himself lately.

_A token of his affection, he said._

“Is this a proposal?” you ask, quietly.

His cheeks turn pink and he moves to hold your hand, still outstretched, with both of his. “Not unless you wish it.”

Your gaze meets his and you can feel the air leave his lungs all at once. A smile forms on your lips, small but genuine, and only for him.

"I do wish it.”

~

You make love that night, and as you fall asleep next to your beloved, you can’t help but feel... hope. You hear him yawn behind you and as he loops an arm around your waist, you gently grasp the earring. _This,_ you think, _is a promise._ If you both survive, you will be as free as a Warden can be to have a future with him. And that makes all your failures, your sacrifices, the blood you’ve shed, the regrets you may have all _worth it._ He makes it worth it. 

You, your companions, and your army will reach Denerim the next day; with that, the Archdemon. You don’t know what the future holds. If Morrigan’s ritual worked, you will live. But even if she hadn’t offered, or if it does not go as planned, you’re not afraid of the sacrifice that may lie ahead of you. You’ve seen too much to be afraid of duty.

~

Denerim is a mess and you feel like a mess and when you and the others part ways at the gates, you try not to think about how you may never see some of them again.

You take a breath, steeling yourself, and nod to Alistair as you turn and head deeper into the city, Zevran and Morrigan trailing close behind.

_This is it._

~

At the end of it all the Archdemon falls by your hand. Energy bursts suddenly and violently from its body as it envelops yours; acting on pure instinct, you grip the leather hilt of your weapon and close your eyes as the world screams around you. 

And you _pray--_

_Falon’din, if I am to perish, guide me into death; Andruil, may my blades and arrows be enough; Mythal, may we be set free from this corruption; Sylaise, guide me into the light._

You’re thrown from where you stand in a massive explosion of white hot energy. Your vision blacks out, and you succumb to unconsciousness.

~

_Hero of Ferelden._

It doesn’t feel real. Not the title, not the Queen standing before you, and not the nobles chanting your name.

You look down into the crowd and see your beloved companions cheering and applauding, their joyous laughter forever more beautiful than the break of dawn. 

Zevran’s gaze catches yours. You see love and awe and happiness in his eyes, and you can’t help but break out into smile. He winks at you. You shake your head as you laugh.

You speak with your friends after the coronation, of course. Alistair tries to say goodbye but you refuse to hear it.

You can think of nothing to do but embrace him. He has been with you since the start of this; you love him, and he has been a friend that one could only ever dream of having.

He looks choked up when you pull away. Reaching down to your belt, you hand him a pouch containing a single gladiolus bloom.

_You are stronger than you know, and I am honored to have fought with you._

As he opens the pouch his eyes widen, and carefully he picks the flower up and cradles it in his palm. He knows the symbolism behind it, you can tell.

“A rose of your own,” he says, dragging his gaze away from his palm to look at you.

You smile. “It’s not the end, lethallin. There are no need for goodbyes. This is only the beginning.” 

He looks at you, really looks at you, and then his face breaks out into a small, genuine smile like he believes it.

To your complete surprise you come across Ashaelle in the crowd. You embrace her, of course, but you’d be lying to yourself if you said it wasn’t odd to see her again.

“How is the clan?” you ask, because you must.

“They are well. We all miss you, child,” she pauses, face pinched. “This may be too much to ask, but will you accompany me on my journey home?”

You smile sadly. “I can’t, Ashalle. I’m a Warden. That title is bigger than all of us, and I’m… not who I once was.” A pause. “If I’m ever in the area, however, of course I will stop by. I haven’t forgotten my family.”

She says she understands despite her obvious disappointment and thanks you before sending you away, a look of longing etched into her features.

Shale and Wynne tell you that they’re planning on going to Tevinter together; Shale wishes to find out if it is possible to reverse the magic that made them a golem, and that’s a worthy enough reason to go travelling as any, you think.

Shale raises a rocky plate on their forehead. “I wish it luck. It -- _you_ \-- have been a fine friend.”

“As have you,” you reply, a smile on your lips.

Wynne doesn’t believe she has much time left, but she tells you she wishes to see the world while the maker still allows her to. You understand that feeling well; you are not the only one who feels they are living on precious, borrowed time.

It is always a gift to see the dawn.

When you go to speak to Leliana she looks happier than you think you’ve ever seen her, and tells you she’s joining a team that will be investigating the darkspawn. You’re happy for her and you tell her as much; you consider offering to accompany her, but you think you’ve had enough of darkspawn. At least for now--you are a Warden, after all, and you always will be.

Sten says he’s returning home, which doesn’t come as a surprise to you, but that doesn’t mean you will not miss him. “Kadan,” he murmurs, with the corner of his lips pulled up.

As you walk up to Oghren he looks as drunk as ever, but seems pleased enough that you survived the battle. He tells you he’s going off on his own as well, far from Orzammar and into the unknown.

A common theme, you think: everyone is leaving to go on their own adventures, to see the world and go where the road takes them.

As are you. Which brings you to...

You turn to see Zevran conversing with what looks to be nobles. You quietly make your way towards him; when he sees you approaching he excuses himself and walks towards you, pulling you into his arms.

“Ah, mi amor. How marvellous it is that we made it, no? And you are the Hero of Ferelden. An elf and my love, no less.”

You chuckle quietly. “Indeed. Who would’ve thought?”

He smiles at you, gaze falling upon the gold earring you have placed on a chain around your neck. “Now we are both free--or, well, as much as a Grey Warden and a former Crow can be.” He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not certain it is advisable for me to stay in one place. The Crows are predictable like the tides; knowing them, they’ll come after me eventually.”

“I did say I wished to travel.”

“That you did. Is it true?”

“Only if you’re coming with me.”

He laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “But of course. How could I say no to a handsome face like yours?”

You roll your eyes and lean down to kiss his neck, then his lips. He sighs into your mouth and wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you closer.

You believe you’ve done enough for the country for the others in the room to let a little public affection slide, you think wryly.

When you open your eyes he’s looking at you tenderly, gaze falling to your lips and back up again. You kiss him once more, deeply, and instead of pulling away to speak he presses his lips to your jaw.

“I suppose if we are travelling together we can speak later, yes? I will not keep you. Go to your adoring fans.” Zevran grins and detaches himself, taking a step back. “I will be waiting for you.”

~

As you approach the doors you can’t help but take a moment to look behind you, back into the chamber. Your friends, _alive,_ filled with hope for what the rest of their lives will bring. The Queen standing in front of them all; nobles talking quietly amongst each other; drinks and laughter flowing freely.

Every choice you’ve made, everything you have done, achieved, sacrificed, has led you to this moment. Your regrets and mistakes and failures are laid bare in front of you, and that is okay. You know who you are, now. 

You nod to the guard. As he opens the doors, bright, beautiful sunlight fills your vision, and you hear the cheers of thousands.

You step over the threshold and into the light.

**Author's Note:**

> find me @ elvhns.tumblr ♡


End file.
